


When You Say You Love Me

by geneticallyxcursed



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Parksborn fluff, Parksborn(unrequited), i did a thing...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1732898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geneticallyxcursed/pseuds/geneticallyxcursed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry loves Peter, and Peter loves Harry, but there's an incredibly wide gap between the two meanings. (Really bad summary sorry. They're not my strong point. Just give it a chance.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction on this site. Really, this is my first fanfiction period, so any criticism is welcome. If the characters don't really follow themselves, you have my deepest apologies.

They were ten years old the first time it happened. Harry had gotten on bad terms with his father again and, like always, had gone to the only place he felt wanted. Standing on the porch of the Parker household in the pouring down rain, hair plastered flat against his forehead and body shivering slightly, he had already begun to feel that warmth. Parker warmth. He knew it because it felt different from other kinds of warmths (when you're ten years old you notice those kinds of things). It felt like a hug, a loving embrace in a kitchen that smelled like fresh-baked cookies. And he knew that he was home. Or at the place that was as close to home as he had.

He pushed the button beside the door, listening to the bell chime inside the house, and when the tired-looking, aged woman opened the door, he smiled politely. She smiled back and called over her shoulder. Moments later a tasseled head of brown hair popped into view from around the door, attached to a crooked grin that made Harry's stomach flip-flop. 

Just like it always did. 

He couldn't help but grin back as Peter pulled him inside, mumbling maternally about him catching pneumonia (how Peter knew such a big and hard to pronounce word was beyond Harry). Harry simply rolled his eyes and let Peter fuss over him as they made their way up the stairs to Peter's bedroom, where the lanky boy bustled around trying to find Harry dry clothes. The shirt hung almost to his knees and the shorts had to be rolled a few times before they would stop falling, but Peter claimed they were only a little smaller on him. 

Then the mood went stale. Grins faded and giggles silenced, and soon they were cuddled together, Peter maturely rubbing Harry's back as he cried, cries muffled in the other boy's shoulder.

"H-he doesn't love me Pete... He n-never loved me..." Somehow he managed to speak through hiccuping sobs, and Peter held him tighter, nuzzling his nose into his friends neck. "He blames m-me. F-for my mom..." He lapsed onto silence then, body relaxing more into the embrace as he drank in Peter's natural warmth. Peter didn't say anything, his unusually keen instincts picking up on his friend's silence and knowing that he wasn't done. He could almost hear the gears turning in Harry's head, he was thinking so hard.

After a few minutes, Harry spoke again, chin digging into Peter's shoulder, where he had propped it so he could be heard clearer. 

"I don't think... I don't think anyone could love me."

Peter stiffened at that, and his heart gave a small, pitying jump. He shifted so that his legs were wrapped completely around Harry and he was close as possible. He stayed like that for a long while, until Harry's hiccups quieted, and then he pulled away slightly so he could look him in the eyes. 

"But I love you."

Harry's heart swelled and then dove almost instantly, making him feel elated and sick in the same instant. He suddenly felt dizzy and rested his head on Peter's shoulder, closing his eyes as he thought.

'He's only saying that because he feels bad for you.'

'But what if he means it?'

'He doesn't, and you know it. No one loves you. Your own father doesn't even love you.'

He lifted his head again, looking at Peter with a fiercely scrutinous gaze, studying his face for any sign that he was lying.

"Say that again."

Peter grinned at the request, even going as far as to giggle quietly before going serious again.

"I love you, Harry."

And the feeling came again.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time it happened Harry was sitting at a desk in a dorm room, trying to keep awake as he stared blankly down at the textbook in front of him, too caught up in his thoughts to focus. He ran a hand through his hair for the millionth time, mussing it even more and making it stick up. He couldn't seem to make himself care. It was his sixteenth birthday, and no one had called or sent a letter or really anything. All those people he had been convinced were friends had obviously forgotten. Again. He almost forgot himself if it weren't for the bottle scotch he'd received from his father. And just because that was as close to a gift as he got didn't mean he necessarily appreciated it.

"Hey Harry, I'm going out. You're sure you don't want to come?"

He could hear the pity in his roommate's words, and the slight hopelessness that he would actually say yes. He supposed, although he didn't quite feel like it, that a drink or two and the company of other people couldn't do much harm. He stood up, trying for a grin that felt too stretched and too much like a grimace and walked towards the other boy. 

"One drink couldn't hurt." 

The other boy grinned in obvious victory, and the two stepped out of the room, closing the door behind them.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the slick, black phone on the edge of the desk buzzed.

•. •. •. 

Harry didn't get back until one o'clock the next morning, staggering and rubbing at red-rimmed eyes. He sat down on the edge of his bed, reaching down to pull off his shoes and socks. When he sat back up again his unfocused, bloodshot eyes rested on the phone on the desk. He stared at it for a long time, having a silent debate with himself that didn't make much sense to his alcohol-induced mind, before standing up and walking unsteadily towards it, gripping the desk for support. He grabbed it and made his way back to the bed, collapsing on it and turning the phone on. Almost instantly he noticed the number. His heart thumped a little too hard. He swallowed before opening the voicemail with shaking fingers (whether that was because of the drinks, his sudden nerves, or both he wasn't sure), and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hi Harry it's... it's Peter...?" Harry hated how it came out like a question, but it gave him the picture of a lanky boy rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and looking up through thick eyelashes. He couldn't say the image wasn't welcome. "I know that I should have called you before now, a really long time before now"- Yes, you should have- "and I'm not going to make any excuses for why I didn't. I just want to say that I'm sorry that this is the only time I've made an effort to talk to you. It's wrong, because we're friends and I'm supposed to contact you. So I don't know why I haven't. You probably thought I forgot about you. I didn't. I wrote your birthday on the calendar so I'd remember this year, because I forgot to do something like that the year you left." There was a long pause then, and Harry almost pulled away when Peter spoke again.

"Im sorry, Harry. You needed someone to care about you and that was my job. My job." His voice cracked, and Harry could feel the stinging behind his eyes. "I didn't exactly do it though did I? I didn't act like I cared when I didn't come to say goodbye, and when I didn't call you for five years. I didn't act like I cared when I didn't even take the time to wish you happy birthday. You must really hate me. But I'm sorry, if that does any good." Another pause, and then "I love you" was added almost as an afterthought. And then it was over. Harry dropped the phone, swiping at his wet cheeks, and then he felt the bile rising up in his throat. Lurching to his feet, he dashed clumsily across the room to the bathroom, lifting the lid of the toilet just in time before his stomach spilled. He shook for an hour afterwards, the words still ringing in his head. 

I love you.

He remembered being little and hearing those same words, and the feeling of warmth that they made. That same warmth spread over him like a blanket now, making him feel light and oddly happy, something he hadn't felt for a long time, and before he knew it, he was lost in darkness and dreams.

He remembered nothing in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry comes home, and notices that some people never change. And some people change a lot without even realizing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a little trouble writing this one, so if it's a little crappy I'm really sorry. If it's really crappy, blame school exams.

The third time, Harry found himself standing at the top of a staircase, looking down at the strange yet familiar man below him.

"Peter Parker," he breathed, and almost immediately a swarm of memories crashed over him in a wave, making his knees feel weak. He didn't let Peter see that weakness though. Harry Osborn didn't have weaknesses. Especially not for lanky, doe-eyed men.

'Liar.'

'Shut up.'

"It's like seeing a ghost." He hadn't meant for it to sound so cold.

"Hey Harry." 

He felt his heart quicken at the voice that answered him. It hadn't changed at all. It still sounded the same. He still sounded the same. He took a deep breath to collect himself before speaking again.

"Random... It's been ten years." Harsh. Why was he being so harsh?

"Eight, but close." 

The air had taken on an awkward quality, making Harry twitchy, although he hid it well, for the most part. Peter, however, was making it quite obvious. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, and then he'd take a step forward before moving back to his original spot before the starting the whole process over again.

"What's up?" It had to be one of the lamest- no, the lamest- thing that had ever come out of his mouth. Thankfully, Peter didn't seem to think so.

"I just... I saw the news, man." Harry flinched, knowing what was coming next, and silently hoped that it wasn't noticeable. "I heard about your dad. I just wanted to come and see how you were doing-"

Harry cut him off quickly, feeling a desperate need to change the subject. "I'm in... I'm with some people. In a meeting." He pleaded silently that Peter would take the hint and leave. He didn't know why he wanted him gone so bad. He hadn't seen Peter- his best friend- in eight years, had spent those eight years wishing they were together, and now that they were he wanted to be alone.

"Sorry... I don't want to intrude..."

'Thank God. He got it.' Harry cringed slightly at the fact that he almost said it out loud. He watched Peter, waiting for him to turn around and walk through the door. But he did the complete opposite. He took a few cautious steps towards the stairs, keeping his eyes locked with Harry's the whole time. It felt like an internal war, him pleading for closure from Peter and Peter pleading for vulnerability from Harry.

"It's been a long time. I kind of know what you're going through right now. You were there for me when my parents-" Peter cut himself off, and Harry could see the raw hurt that flashed trough his eyes. "That's why I'm here for you," he finished, his voice thick with emotion. Harry felt a pang of sympathy. Peter had loved his parents, fiercely loved them, and their abandonment had left him in pieces. Harry had never loved his father. Respected him, yes, but there was never love. He wasn't broken over the fact that Norman Osborn was dead.

"Thank you." He said it curtly. Coldly. He watched as Peter stopped on the step he had started to climb, hurt in his eyes.

'He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why you're pushing him away.'

"It's good to see you man.". The way Peter said it stated otherwise. "It's good to see you. Sorry about your dad." He turned his back in Harry and made him way, looking defeated, towards the door. An argument as good as exploded in Harry's head, fighting with his morals and feelings and values. He struggled with himself for a few moments before the fight died down. Peter was just reaching out to take the doorknob when Harry spoke again.

"You got your braces off." Peter looked over his shoulder, a confused expression on his face. He looked so innocent that Harry couldn't help but drop his distant demeanor and grin widely. "Now there's nothing to distract from your unibrow." 

Peter's answering grin put Harry's to shame as he replied, "There he is!" The child-like glee reverberated in the room around them, and suddenly the awkward tension was gone. "There he is." A thoughtful pause, and then, "Do you still dry your hair every morning?"

Harry feigned offense. "Um, you know... One of my manservants holds the hair dryer, but I'm with the comb, okay, so I'm not completely helpless," he stated sarcastically, causing Peter's grin to widen (if that was even remotely possible). 

The next thing he knew, the man was bounding up the stairs to embrace him, holding him close. And there was that warmth that he had missed so badly. That Parker warmth. He shuddered slightly as Peter's breath blew against his skin as he whispered, "I missed you, Harry. I love you. I missed you."

Harry stiffened slightly at the words, those words that he hadn't heard for years. Hs heart throbbed, creating an ache in his chest that slowly spread through his body, a want and a need to be closer. It was like a pull, an impatient tug towards the other, and it hurt. God, it hurt.  
And, too soon it felt like, Peter was pulling away, and the tugging worsened. It baffled him, the sudden feeling of loss that came on him. The way his breath caught at the way Peter was looking at him. It wasn't just him holding his breath, though. No it felt like the whole world had gone completely still, like it was holding its breath with him. He didn't know what it was. It was a strange feeling, he decided. A strange feeling, but he liked it. It was different. Not necessarily bad, but not necessarily good either. Something had changed drastically, and he wasn't quite sure what it was.  
'It's you, idiot.'  
But no, that wasn't right. He hadn't changed. Or at least he was pretty sure he hadn't.  
Peter smiled knowingly, almost to himself, and then he leaned forward a little, giving Harry that look; awkward and shy. And incredibly knowing. It made him a little uncomfortable.

'He can see it. He knows.'

"I love you Harry," he said it so teasingly that Harry just couldn't help himself.

He frowned and promptly swatted the side of Peter's head. Peter's laughter rang loud in his ears for what seemed like hours afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I don't want to sound pushy or rude or anything, but feedback means a lot to me. You don't have to, but I'd really, really appreciate it. Like, I can't really put it into words, but I'm pretty sure it could be a psychological problem that I should get checked. Knowing what readers think about what I write is really important. Even if you just have a suggestion on something that you think could be better. Just tell me what it is. You don't have to tell me how to fix it. I'll do the work myself. Thank you all! 
> 
> -Gen


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it took so long for me to update this. I had a spot where inspiration just kind of went dead and it was really hard to come up with anything. But here's the fourth chapter up, so I'm relatively back on track. It's a little short and I'm sorry about that but I hope you all enjoy it anyways. 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback is always incredibly welcome, good or bad.

The fourth time it happened, Harry didn't hear it. It was written, in entwined silver, against the pale sky. He didn't see it either. But it was there.  
. . .  
Peter sat at the top of the massive bridge, watching the traffic below him with a distracted expression. His fingers picked absentmindedly at the peeling paint that stuck up from the rusty iron bar that he was precariously perched on. He was chewing slightly on the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit for when he was worried. It wasn't Gwen that was worrying him. She was at Oxford, and from what he'd seen, that was where she wanted to be. It wasn't that she didn't want to be with him after graduation, wasnt that she was leaving. It wasn't that she was across the ocean from where he was. 

It was a little voice in the back of his mind that kept whispering that he didn't mind. He did mind. It was like letting a part of himself get up and leave. You couldn't do that without minding at least a little bit.

No, it was that he didn't seem as distraught as he thought he would be. He wasn't clinging to it the way he should have been. He had left when she had told him she had to go. Peter Parker, in his right mind, wouldn't have done that. Peter Parker, in his right mind, would have been the dork he is and followed her, nagging and trying to come to some sort of agreement. 

But he hadn't. He had left when she walked away. He had left, and climbed to his perch, and had sunk into thought. And not about Gwen, or his on-occasion-regretful life decisions. Instead, they had drifted to a fragile but incredibly over-stubborn blonde boy back in New York who liked to pretend he was strong enough that he didn't need anyone. And it was then that he realized that there was something back in New York for him. There was a piece of him there, too. A piece that needed him (though the idiot would never admit to that) a lot more than Gwen Stacey did. A piece of him that craved support but refused to acknowledge it, and who needed help but refused to ask.

Peter began moving, still wound up in his thoughts. He pulled up the sleeves of his coat and shot two strands of web, in opposite directions from each other, pulling them together to make one thin line. He repeated this process multiple times until he was sitting in the middle of a skeletal looking web, and then he continued. Slowly, it began to take a real shape as his mind flashed back to the crying boy on his bed, abandoned and alone; the phone call he had made and that had never been returned; the man standing at the top of the stairs pushing him away and locking himself up desperately before finally giving in. When his thoughts returned back to the present, he pushed off the sticky material, swinging away and casting one last look at the bridge behind him.

Against the sky, his realization hung suspended: I love you.

Turning away from Oxford and turning back to New York, he swung away from Gwen and back to home and back to the frail boy waiting there. Back to Harry


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I had this on the backburner for so long, a lot of family and health stuff came up and I got a little overwhelmed. Plus, writer's block is a bitch and nothing creative was really coming up. But here's the next chapter, might be a little crappy because I'm getting rusty. But I hope its at least slightly worth the prolonged wait.

The fifth time it happened, Peter wasn't even sure it was Harry.

It was something else, something he hated but couldn't help but feel sorry for. And the guilt was too much. He had done it. Albeit, not meaning to, but he had done it. Watching it, curled up in the corner of the dark room, he felt a stinging behind his eyes, and he bit his lip as the scowling guard pushed the door open.

It looked up, and Peter's heart restricted. He saw Gwen, limp and lifeless, reflected in the dead pupils. He saw Harry's father, his face plastered on the news, shining in the dull green irises. He saw a monster in the face, in the very being of it, but he felt Harry somewhere underneath all of the hatred that was radiating out towards him, in all the fear that was filling the room, in the regret that was choking him. He leaned back against the wall, clamping a hand over his mouth as his vision blurred, as the hunched form curled up tighter and looked away. He felt Harry, and it broke him. 

"I'm sorry."

It's eyes were trained on him again, and he found himself searching for it, for the thing that had killed Gwen, that had wreaked havoc and terror, and he came up empty. All he could see was anger - not at anyone more than itself - and underneath that fear and hurt that was buried deep and was slowly eating away what was left of Harry. Peter slid down the wall until he landed heavily on the floor, head cradled in his hands as he apologized repeatedly under his breath. It watched him, and he could feel himself being sized up. 

"You killed her. Gwen." He thought he saw it flinch, but then again he was looking at it fixedly, so it could have just been wishful thinking. "You tried to kill me." He looked up then, dragging his hands over his face. "I should hate you. I should want you locked up, I should want you to pay for the things you did." He felt the anger welling up, but he saw the brokenness, and all he could think was that it had been Harry. At one point, he had loved it. "But I don't." It moved, uncurling from itself and scowling. "I don't want you dead. And I don't hate you. I should - God, I should, after all the things you've done - but I don't. I can't." The scowl was gone, and the head was tilted, so slightly that anyone but Peter would have missed the offset angle. "I can't, because I loved him once. I still do. You're not him, not anymore, but you're enough like him that I can't. I can't hate you, because I could never hate Harry."

It was watching him now, not sizing him up but actually watching him, eyes alert and body leaning forward slightly. He took that as a sign. "I know you're in there somewhere, Harry. I know you don't understand why I couldn't give you the blood. I know you don't understand any of this, and it scares you. It always scared you when you didn't understand something." He paused, watching the shift in the eyes; the green faded into a more natural - a more Harry like - color. "I never hated you for being scared, Harry. I never thought you were any less important. I never thought you were a coward, and I don't think you are now. I never loved you any less. When you were scared... I think, in those moments, I loved you more. Not really because you needed it, but because you weren't afraid to be scared. You told me, and you weren't ashamed of it." It was listening, its head tilting more and craning forward, mouth open slightly and eyes locked on him. "I still love you Harry, even though you don't understand. I love you more now than I have before, and maybe it is because you need it. Maybe you just need to be reminded that someone can. I did what I did because I loved you, not because I didn't care. I keep thinking that maybe, you did what you did because at some point, you stopped believing that you were worth it. Maybe it wasn't because you were hateful, or because you were a monster. Maybe it was just because you forgot what you are, and you just wanted to know that you could be something." 

It watched him for a moment before looking away, curling into itself again. Peter sat on the cold floor for a minute longer before pushing himself to his feet and making his way to the door, which opened for him. He looked back over his shoulder at the huddle shape in the corner. "I still love you, Harry. I still do." And then he stepped out, and the door shut behind him, casting the room back into darkness.

 

It looked up, eyes shining dimly in the shadow, and it unfolded itself, lip curling up and pulling tight over its teeth. It was aching, its skin too tight around /something/, and it snarled at the feeling. It was alien, the warmth, but familiar, and it hated it. But the Other One, the human, the living thing deep down, was drawn to it like a moth to a lantern, and that deep down part was slowly growing, coming closer and closer to the light, breaking through it's shadow. And then that deep down part was there, gaping at the door and struggling against It, pulsing with pain and longing and fear. It snarled, pulling at him and trying to drag him back under, but he had something now. Something that made it harder to suppress him, harder to take him over. And so, in the dark, that deep down part won, and he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was okay, it actually went a lot smoother writing than I thought it would. Thank you to anyone who commented on it, I probably would have forgotten about it otherwise. Next chapter's the last one, by the way, so I'm almost done. I don't know when I'll be able to post it, but I'll make sure its not as long a break as this last one. No promises on a specific date, but it should be up soon. Again, thanks so much for bearing with me, and feedback is always welcome, even if its only insults to my sidetracked mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**(A/N I KNOW THAT IT HAS BEEN AVERY LONG TIME AND I APOLOGIZE SO MUCH FOR IT. You're comments were wonderful, to those that left them; it made me giddy finding them in my inbox. I've been incredibly busy with school and such (GUESS WHO'S IN COLLEGE NOW FOR ASTROBIOLOGY PEOPLE) and I didn't have a whole lot of free time between that and my mother getting sick (uterine cancer). But as a thank you to everyone who stuck with this, I'm posting two chapters today, and after that there's only one more to go. So thank you all so much, and I sincerely hope this makes up for how slow I am.)**

The sun was too bright. The air was too stiff. The sounds of the street were too loud. He was too out of place.

His shoes made dull noises against the pavement, and he kept his face directed down at the scuffed toes, the ballcap on his head shielding him from unwanted looks. Years earlier, in another life it felt like, he would have been disgusted at his appearance, but it seemed pointless to worry about it now. Ever since coming back his thoughts had been focused on one thing, and if he had to live in donation-worthy clothes in order to do it, he welcomed the life experience.

He nearly missed his turn, lost in the jumble of thoughts that required almost constant maintenance. Backtracking and praying silently he didn't look too concerning to the woman jogging a stroller past on the other side of the street, he sped his pace and kept an eye on the house numbers.

_483_.

_**No, dummy, it's 485**._

_I know that._

_**You forgot. You forgot the number, idiot.** _

_Shut up._

Shaking his head, he stumbled slightly over a bump in the concrete, collecting himself gracelessly and continuing on, vision blurring in and out and ears ringing more and more the longer he walked. Finally he leaned against a short, wrought-iron gate, looking up at the number with anxiety and relief warring on his face. He took a few steps towards the door, but paused when his toes bumped against the bottom step to the porch.

_**Turn around. Turn around, dumbass. Turn around and run.** _

He didn't move.

_**Feet. Move. Turn around. Walk. Run. Fall. Die. Do something.** _

He stared at the door, breath caught in his lungs.

_**For fuck's sake.** _

He felt himself turn around, although he didn't know how he managed it. His chest was too tight. His head hurt. He felt like he was made out of wet noodles. But he turned. And promptly planted himself on the porch step, pulling his knees up and hugging them as he resting his chin on top.

_**This isn't running. This is the complete opposite of running.** _

_I'm not running._

**_Obviously_.**

_Not this time. Not from him._

_**You're stupid, you know. Thinking you can just show up on his doorstep and he'll just forget what you've done.** _

_I don't expect him to_.

_**Then why the hell are you here?** _

He paused, gripping the thought and keeping the others at bay as he turned it over. He smiled, a small twitch of the lips.

"He'll forgive me."

His stomach twisted, but unlike the occasions before, he didn't gag, or cringe, or lose his small amounts of food. Instead he smiled more, face stinging from the strange feeling of being pulled tight.

"He'll forgive me."

_**Child**_.

"He will. He always had."

"That's impossible, Harry, because I love you."  
"I love you."  
"I can't hate you. I loved him."

He was shaking. He was shaking, and his breathing was coming out clipped. He couldn't keep a grip on the threads of thought. He could feel himself slipping, the guilt creeping in, the anger and hatred sneaking after it.

**_He wouldn't help you. He said he loved you, but he wouldn't help you._ **

_Shut up **.**_

_**He never loved you.** _

_Shut up, please._

**_He will never love you._ **

_Shut. Up_.

_**You may as well give up. This is what you are now. This. A monster. A curse. You wouldn't make him bear a curse, would you? Get up. Walk. Leave. He doesn't love you. He never has. Get up.** _

_Harry Osborn. Norman Osborn. A faint hiss. May. Ben. Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter._

His bones ached. His muscles ached. His head ached. And his chest. Everything ached. All he could feel was pain. Pain, pain, pain.

_**Give in, brother. We're one in the same. Give in. Stop fighting.** _

"Harry. May. Ben. Peter." He repeated the names feverishly, muttering them under his breath, salty wetness dripping over his lips and off his chin. "Harry. May. Ben. Peter..."

"Harry."

His muscles jolted and his gaze shot up, hazy vision failing to focus on the blur in front of him.

"Harry?"

"Peter." His voice was nothing more than a hoarse croak.

"C'mon, we need to get you inside. It's starting to rain. Come on, Harry, work with me." He was faintly aware of a tugging on his arm, and then at his shoulder, but all he could focus on was the feeling, alien yet familiar. He moved quickly, feeling almost clear as the warmth settled, calming his loud mind and focusing his eyes. He reached up and grazed his fingers over the cheek of the determined man currently attempting to lift him with still too gangly arms, feeling uncomfortably like a child discovering they had fingers.

"Peter." The man didn't look up. "Pete." Nothing. "I love you." There we go.

Peter had frozen, having finally lifted the frail form partway off the step, and was staring at him with wide, conflicted eyes. He pressed his hand more confidently against the warm Parker skin, tracing lines between the random freckles that peppered it. "I love you," he repeated, and then again, "I love you. I love you. I love you."

Peter hauled him up completely with a jerk, catching him against his chest. He pressed closer, feeling cool rain on his back and warm tears on his face. "I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. Peter, I love you. I love you."

"It's alright, Har. It's alright now, okay? You're home. Let's get inside." His feet left the ground, and almost immediately everything faded.

 


	7. Chapter 7

He woke up in the dark, and for a moment he remembered the cell and lashed out with a strangled whine. But then his knee connected with something soft, and he quickly became aware of his surroundings. He was on a bed, with a blanket over his shoulders. There was a window, and a cluttered desk. There were also some very dangerous looking gizmos with pointed edges strewn randomly over the floor, along with some shirts and a pair of shorts that were beginning to smell like last week's gym clothes. Wrinkling his nose, he moved on. Closet door, cracked open. Bedroom door, wide open. Escape. His cheek finally rested back against the pillow, having completed its strained 180 around the room, and his breath hitched.

The softness he'd hit had been a stomach, clad in a pullover hoodie, and that belonged to a certain brown-haired, doe-eyed, bumbling idiot of a man. Harry stared at the calm face that lay inches away from him, half of him wondering what the hell it was doing there and the other half wondering why the hell it's owner hadn't woken up from the rude knee-to-the-liver. He didn't move, barely even blinked despite the fact that he hadn't woken the other, illogically fearing that even too deep of a breath would cause the soft snores to stop and the relaxed muscles to tense. So he laid there, frozen in time, panicking in silence.

And then the arm moved. God, the arm moved, fingers bumping into his side before following the fabric of the loose shirt -which certainly wasn't his - to drape over his stomach and pull him impossibly closer. He left out a whimper and rushed to swallow it as fast as he could. There was warm breath against his neck now, and soft hair just barely brushing against his nose, and he found himself feeling more relaxed than his body was letting him be.

The foot moved next, and despite the tense jolt it sent up his leg as it moved against his foot, he found he wasn't able to pull away.

"I got to warn you, Har, I turn into an octopus once I'm out." He had laughed, and had slept through Peter's squirming, finding out with surprise in the morning that the brunette had not been exaggerating in the least.

Their legs were tangled now, and Peter was huffing out poor excuses for words against his skin. He tried to catch some of it, if only to distract himself from the onslaught of feelings, but it sounded a lot like frog and midget and frock and he found himself too tired to try and translate the strange foreign language that the other had adopted. So instead he allowed his not-warm-enough body to fill up whatever space was left between them and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the other's and breathing in the scent of fresh cookies, and basking in the feeling that the sleep-embrace brought.

°.°.°.

He woke up alone, and tried to squash the disappointed feeling that realization left him with. He sat up, glaring around the room at the offended objects. Alone. Always alone. Stupid.

His bad mood only lasted so long as it took for his nose to start working. Then he was too busy following the buttery smell down the stairs and around the corner into the kitchen.

It was empty. He shifted nervously before stepping in completely, pausing to make sure his action didn't trigger any traps. It's an apartment. Who boobytraps an apartment.

You can never be too sure. Peter is a weird guy.

The smell was coming from a plate on the table. He crept forward, reaching out ans snagging one of the flat items off the plate. Pancakes. He tore a piece off and bit into it, breathing out heavily as he hurriedly bit into the rest of it. He perked up when he heard a creak, snagging a couple more of the food before darting for the doorway, only to collide with a solid chest and go sprawling onto the floor.

"You don't have to steal." It was calm. Not a threat. He pulled his food closer to him, baring his teeth and growling low in his throat. Fight. Mine. Pain. Peter squated next to him, not reaching out but simply looking at him with an unreadable expression. "Come sit at the table. I'll get you a plate." Then he straightened and put distance between them, setting two plates on the table and sitting. Permission. Harry felt the Other inching back, confused and unsure, and he uncurled himself and pushed to his feet, hesitantly making his way to the table. There was already food on his plate, and he looked down at the almost destroyed bread in his hands, then up at Peter guiltily.

"I made enough. Here." Peter reached out slowly, gently prying the crumbs from his numb fingers and depositing them in the trash bin. "Sit down, Harry." He sat. He didn't eat. Peter watched him, trying not to be obvious about watching him.

His first breakfast was a slow ordeal. The Other crept up a few times, with a snarl or a hiss or a lashing out that startled Peter a few inches back from the table. For the most part, though, it was quiet. Peter didn't push.

He stayed outside most of the time, staring out at the road and wondering if he should run. Every time he took that first step, however, Peter would come out, or would call him for a meal, or would simply come out and stand next to him and call him Harry. And suddenly, before he knew it had happened, he found himself wanting less and less to run, and more and more to stay, if only to see the spark that past briefly in Peter's expression, and the soft tone that settled soothingly over the ringing sounds of the rest of the world, and the way the Other was all but forgotten when Peter looked at him and let himself smile and said wordlessly, "I love you, too."

 


	8. Chapter 8

The seventh time it happened, it was different.

Harry was sitting on the top step of the small porch, eyes closed and head tilted up as the sun warmed his face. He was filling out now, his cheeks no longer sunken in, his shoulders and spine no longer jutting out in sharp edges. He was less pale, too. Peter had noticed that faint shift of tone. It wasn't quite tan, but Peter said it made him look healthier. The dark circles under his eyes were slowly fading, and he felt less like he was walking in his sleep. He wasn't finding himself in a constant state of numbness, although sometimes, when his muscles ached a little too much and it was hard for him to hold things because his hands were shaking a little too hard, he wished he could call on that numbness, if only so he could be less of a problem.

That's what he was struggling with now, feeling problematic, and he knew Peter could tell. The way he had quietly and cautiously announced that he'd called in an appointment for a therapist - "Just try it, Har. If you hate it you don't have to go back." - and the way he'd watch Harry when he thought he wasn't looking. It nagged at the back of Harry's mind, and he retreated to his roost on the porch when it got a little too loud. That's where he found himself now, and he allowed himself a small smile at the quiet that had settled.

The quiet was interrupted by a snapping click, and he jolted around, muscles tense and already halfway standing as he stared in surprise over his shoulder. Peter stared back at him with a mixture of surprise and guilt in his expression, and Harry's eyes quickly settled on the guilty party: the stupid camera lodged forever in Peter's hands. Willing his muscles to ease up, he sat back down, heavy and stiff, and stared out at the road. _Run_. There was the brush of a leg against his, and he leaned oh-so-slightly to his right, shoulder bumping just barely against Peter's. He saw the answering grin out of the corner of his eye. Progress. He watched lazily as Peter's fingers played awkwardly with the buttons of the camera, and Harry felt the urge to say something. He got that urge a lot, but he rarely did anything about it. It was one of the things that had changed. It was hard for them to talk to each other.

"Can I stay?"

Peter's attention snapped to him, and Harry wondered absently how often the other got whiplash from such movements as Peter's fingers stilled. There was a silence for a moment, where Peter stared at Harry and Harry stared at the road before breaking the tension.

"It's just that I assume this is temporary. I'll be here until I'm better, until I've fixed myself, and then you'll want me to have my own space, away. That is the plan, isn't it? That's why I've got the therapist. So I can fix myself and move along."

Peter was biting his lip, the look of guilt creeping back, more evidently, into his expression.

"I didn't expect to stay for this long, actually," Harry continued. "In fact, I didn't really expect to stay at all. I didn't even mean to come in the first place. It was an accident. I just walked, and I wound up here. I didn't think you'd let me stay. I hoped, but I didn't expect much of a welcome."

He turned his head then, eyes finally fixing on the other fully. Peter hadn't moved.

"I want to stay. I want to stay, Peter."

Peter was flat-out chewing on his lip now, and Harry deciding that if he didn't do anything about it quickly, Peter wouldn't have a lip left to chew. So he leaned a little more until their arms were pressed together instead of ghosting, and he held his breath, and he closed the distance, angling his head slightly. Peter wasn't moving, was still chewing his lip, so Harry lurched the last millimeters, and their mouths crashed together.

The chewing stopped abruptly, and Harry lingered for a moment before pulling away and righting himself. He watched Peter. Peter watched something that was probably very far away, and glazed over. Harry waited. Finally Peter looked away from whatever had his attention, and then he stared at Harry for a good long while before opening his mouth and letting out a strangled, confused noise. Harry waited. Finally, Peter learned coherence again, and Harry realized early on in his rambling that he wasn't going to shut up anytime soon.

"-showed up and I didn't know what to do, and I still don't know what to do, and it scares the hell out of me but I don't want you to leave, I really don't, I want you to stay - unless you don't want to, which is totally fine - but I want you to stay, Harry, I really want you to stay, because I love y -"

Harry leaned again, effectively shutting the rambling idiot up. Peter was still for only a second this time, and then his hands were on Harry's face and he was kissing back and _oh_ , so _that's_ what it's supposed to feel like. Harry whined softly, shifting his body around to face the brunette and pressing closer, his hands moving of their own will, one tangling in Peter's shirt, just above his naval, and the other tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Harry could remember kissing people before, when he'd been away, but this felt different. Before they were girls, and he didn't know their names, and he didn't know anything about them or they about him, and none of them had been his best friend. And Peter was gentle. He was soft. He was patient. There wasn't the heat that kisses before had made, all tongue and teeth and savagery. There was the warmth that always came with Peter: shelter from the rain, remembering what everyone else forgot, loyalty even in rejection, persistence, forgiveness, love, hope, home. It all came through, trembling through Harry's lips and spreading through the rest of him, easing the pain in his body and his soul, filling up the empty spaces, reminding him that someone had always loved him. There was no need for tongues, or teeth, or hungry mouths. It was healing, stitching up wounds and pulling everything back together. He could feel everything mending, the Other half melding back into him, no longer a separate raging beast living separate and buried, but whole now, back where it couldn't hurt anyone. But it hurt him, God did it hurt, jerking his body and tearing broken sounds out past the clenching in his throat. He hiccuped against Peter's lips and the latter drew back, thumbs running over Harry's cheeks as he wiped gently at the tears streaming down them. Harry's eyes were clenched shut, and his entire body shook.

"I want to stay. I want to stay." He repeated the statement until it became a mantra, matching pace with the slamming of his heart against his ribs. The tears flowed faster as Peter pulled at him, letting him sink boneless against him, swallowing down his own tears.

"You're staying, Harry. I promise. I'm not losing you again, okay? You're going to stay, as long as you want." Peter's voice was soft, and Harry grappled desperately at the words, processing them slowly and rolling them minutely over his tongue as he clung to the other. "You're home, Harry. It's alright. Deep breaths, in and out. Deep breaths, Har, come on. I love you, it's okay. You're okay. I love you."

The two sat on the porch for a long while, breathing each other in and trying to ignore the walls that were crashing down inside each of them. It became a ritual, every evening, to sit out in comfortable silence and touch and let the other know that they weren't alone.

 


End file.
